Displaced Signals
by annonwrite
Summary: AU post-"Out of the Box"/S1 finale because I needed more hurt/comfort than we got. Neal is in pain. Peter and El take care of him.
**Note:** I've recently discovered White Collar (I know, I'm late), and this is my first fic for it. AU for post-Out of the Box because I needed more h/c than what we got! Thank you for reading!

###

It's so strange, Neal thinks, that the place you feel thirst is on your tongue.

After all, if you die of dehydration, it's not the dry mouth that kills you. It's not the headache you might feel when it gets bad enough. Not the cracking skin or the lack of urine or sweat or tears.

No, it's the low blood volume that ultimately gets you. The thing in your veins you can't even feel that does you in.

The human body is full of displaced signals.

That's why he doesn't feel Kate's death in the one place that should hurt: his heart.

He feels it in his stomach. His lower back. In his left fingers. In the crook of his elbow and his right kidney and the soles of his feet.

Neal is a displaced signal.

He takes a drink of water, wets his mouth, and wonders when what's in his veins – or rather, what _isn't_ in his veins – will kill him.

###

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead."

He groans and shrugs away from the voice. His ear hurts.

"Come on, Neal. You slept for ten hours, and I'm not letting you skip breakfast."

El. Who should be at work right now. Who isn't there because Neal is here.

He opens his eyes to morning sunlight and a gentle smile.

"Good morning." She pats his arm. "There are clean clothes for you in the bathroom. You take a shower, and I'll make breakfast."

Then she's gone. He lies there, considers going back to sleep, but knows that resisting Elizabeth takes more energy than soap and shampoo.

Twenty minutes later he smells like El's fabric softener and a spare stick of Peter's deodorant, and he's crawling back between the sheets.

"Here we go," she says, placing a tray on the bed next to him. It's weighed down with water, coffee, pancakes, strawberries, and a bowl of yogurt.

"Thank you," he says and clears his throat when his voice cracks.

"You're welcome." She sits on the guest bed next to him, propping herself against the headboard with a spare pillow. "So, does anything hurt today?"

He pokes at one of the pancakes. There are chocolate chips in the middle. He wants to be hungry, but he isn't. "My ear," he says.

"Think a heating pad on it would help?"

"Maybe."

"Your stomach doesn't hurt today?"

He palms his stomach, just in case, then shakes his head. "No."

"Good. You should eat. Don't tell Peter I gave you chocolate chips, okay? He'll be jealous."

Neal takes a bite and tastes ash from the explosion. He chokes a little. Forces himself to swallow. Takes a drink of water. Puts his fork down. "I'm sorry, El."

She smiles, but it's fake. "That's okay, sweetie. I'll put it in the fridge for later." She sets the tray aside and plugs in the heating pad. "Which ear?"

"Right."

She places the heating pad on his pillow and motions for him to lie down on it. He does, and she cards her fingers through his damp hair. "That good?"

"Thank you, El. Really."

"You're welcome." She bites her lip. "Do you feel like talking today?"

"No. I'm okay."

He doesn't need to talk.

After all, it's not his heart that hurts.

###

At first, they blamed the pain on his fall after the explosion. But his wrist wasn't swollen or bruised, and the pain in his back seemed to move from place to place. Then new things started hurting. His stomach. His shoulder. A spot just above his left hip. Far too late and unconnected.

The Burkes dragged him to a doctor, where he was given a clean bill of physical health.

But that doesn't stop them from understanding that his pain is real. Doesn't stop them from trying everything they can to take it away.

He's sitting on the couch, left foot propped up on the coffee table, mostly melted bag of ice on a thin towel over his knee. It's starting to drip on the rug.

"How are you doing?" Peter asks, loosening his tie. His shirt is wrinkled after too many hours at the office.

"Okay. How was work?"

"Good." Peter nods to his knee. "Want me to get you more ice? Or do you want to try heat?"

Neal absently strokes the fur on the back of Satchmo's head. "More ice would be great. Thank you."

Peter removes the bag and starts to walk away, but then stops and turns. "I'm proud of you."

He raises his eyebrows. He can't think of anything, not one single thing that Peter should be proud of him for. "For what?"

"For being honest with us. For telling us how you're feeling. What hurts. I know you're not ready to talk, but I also know it might have been easier to pretend to be fine. To force yourself back to the office before you're ready. I'm proud of you for not doing that."

He swallows hard and doesn't say anything.

Peter heads to the kitchen for more ice.

###

Neal wakes to a hand on his shoulder and not enough air in his lungs.

"Hey. Neal. You with us now? You awake?" It's dark in the room, but not dark enough to hide the concern in Peter's frown or El's wide eyes.

His throat hurts. He must have been screaming. Before he can say he's okay, a bolt of pain strikes his chest, doubling him at the waist and stealing his breath away.

"Neal?" Elizabeth asks. "What's wrong? What hurts?"

That's when Neal realizes. The one thing that should have hurt all along is in pure agony. His heart is breaking. His heart is broken. "Chest," he chokes out.

Peter swears. "I'm calling nine-one-one."

"No, wait," El says. "I think he's having a panic attack. Neal? Listen. I know it hurts, but you're okay. I just need you to slow down your breathing for me, okay? Deep breaths. In and out."

She rubs her hand up and down his back and he tries to focus on that, tries to focus on anything other than the fact that his chest is splitting in two, but all he can think about is Kate.

Kate smiling at him.

Kate kissing him.

Kate making love to him.

Kate on that plane, alone.

Kate blown into a million pieces that burn his skin and his lungs and his eyes.

"She's gone," he coughs out, tugging at the collar of his T-shirt. "She's gone." He gasps and sobs and cracks right down the middle. "I miss her. I loved her."

Something happens. The pain eases a tiny bit.

"Good, Neal. Good," Peter says. "Keep breathing."

He does, and the pain backs off a little more. "I loved her," he wheezes.

El thumbs away tears he didn't realize had fallen. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so, so sorry."

A minute later, his breathing is back to normal and the pain is fading into a memory. They help him lie back against the pillows. He is suddenly so, so tired.

"How's your chest?" Peter asks.

"My heart broke," he says.

"What can we do?" El asks. "Do you want water? Ice? Heat?"

He swallows hard. Another tear hits the pillow. "My heart broke, but I didn't die."

Peter exchanges a glance with El. "You didn't," he says.

The things he could feel – the pain in his neck and his liver and the tendon along the back of his ankle – they didn't kill him. The thing he couldn't feel – his heart – didn't kill him, either.

For the first time, he thinks maybe he'll live through this.

He misses her. _God_ he misses her.

But the displaced signals are gone.

Peter and El are here.

He's here.

"Neal?" she asks. "Are you hurting anywhere?"

"No," he says and falls into a dreamless, painless sleep.


End file.
